Cyberbolt

Prologue

1:00 a.m., New Year’s Day 2021

Before she yelled, she sensed it—a rumbling, powerful, dangerous movement. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw it: a large truck hurtling towards them from the passenger’s side. It appeared from nowhere. She glimpsed the man behind the wheel, his mouth contorted into a silent roar, his eyes popping in terror.

Mica’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. Her knuckles cracked. Then, in a split second that seemed to last forever, she realized there was nothing she could do. Neither gas nor brake nor yanking the steering wheel would help. The truck rammed into the front right-hand side of her car, sending it spinning across the road. There was no time to think. All she could do was scream … Shiiiiitttt …

The airbag exploded into her chest with a sledgehammer force. Her head whipped back, her brain smashing into her skull.

A shower of glass, like diamond rain, fell over her in slow motion while, around her, the world turned. A sickening crunch and scrape of metal on metal hit her in the stomach and she vomited the half-digested hot dog she’d eaten earlier.

Mica tried to breathe but her throat was blocked, crushed by the weight of her chest. Finally, the car jolted to a standstill. She tried again for a breath and winced as her bruised ribs flared open. Bizarrely, she felt like laughing. Something bubbled up inside her and her mouth twisted itself into a grimace. But then she was falling, down and down and down into a deep, warm, dark place where she didn’t have to think, or worry, or remember. She could just sleep.

It was the noise that woke her—the wail of sirens—the wah, Wah, WAH. An FBI agent with ten years in the field—she knew that sound anywhere. Blue and red lights flashed on the other side of her eyelids. She didn’t want to open her eyes. If I can just stay here, she thought, if I can … it’ll all quieten down in a minute. They’ll all go away and leave me alone. If I can just stay here, hidden away in this secret, dark place, nobody will see me.

Ma’am? Ma’am? a male voice whispered into her ear. "Ma’am, can you hear me? Try not to move, okay?’

She didn’t want to move. So don’t worry, mister. I’m quite happy here. Just leave me in peace.

Ma’am?

Go away. Why won’t you leave me alone? What’s wrong with you?

Beat it, she mouthed—or at least she tried to. But damn, her tongue was so thick. A pathetic hiss is all that came out.

Ma’am?

Dear God, was this man a major pain in the ass or what? What do I have to do to make him back off?

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the bright lights. Nothing made any sense at first. Where was she? And who was this man who kept calling her ma’am? Nice eyes, though, she thought as he leaned closer to her. Kind eyes. Green eyes. A green-eyed man wearing a mask and a firefighter’s uniform. What sort of party is this?

As the blood rushed back to her brain, a pain in her leg gripped her. She groaned as her head cleared, making way for more pain and more throbbing. The fireworks, she remembered. New Year. The freakin’ traffic. Oh my God. The sedan was flipped onto its roof, she suddenly realized. She could tell that much by now. Good to know that was why the blanket of starry sky was at her feet. And the green-eyed firefighter was about to cut her out of her car. Jesus, I’m going to be knee-deep in shit for this. I should never have used my OGV for personal use.

As she lay there, the voice inside her head ramped up, nagging at her, blaming her, guilt-tripping her. They could fire you for this, it said. They won’t, she countered. But they could, Mica Bolt, it practically growled. Okay, they’ll definitely remove my name from the donut round, she conceded. In fact, I’ll be the one buying the donuts from now on—for the rest of my professional life.

Young green-eyes knelt on the pavement next to her, wielding some tool that looked like a massive lobster claw. Don’t worry, he said. I’ll have you out of here in no time.

Bet you say that to all the girls, she whispered.

As the giant claw clamped down onto a piece of the car by her feet, her brain shook loose a thought hovering at the edge of her mind. Sara? she said in a panic. Rachel? Oh my God! How could she have forgotten they were in the back of the car? Mica twisted her head, straining to look around despite having just realized she was upside down, dangling in her shoulder harness.

Head still, ma’am, please, ordered young green-eyes.

But my sister and—are they okay?

Please don’t move, he said, as the machinery around him thrummed and metal creaked. ‘We’re working on getting everyone out safely."

Sara? Mica yelled, though it sounded more like a tortured rasp. Rachel?

Please, ma’am, he said again. You gotta stay completely still.

Chapter One

Tension between government and Big Tech companies poised to continue

The changeover from the Trump to the Biden administration will not slow down the challenges Big Tech and social media companies face from the government. The antitrust case against Google and the fight over Chinese ownership of TikTok will continue. Social media companies have enjoyed legal protections including laws such as Section 230 immunity from lawsuits derived from what users post. The government plans to overhaul this legislation and take away such protections.

CYBERWORLD NEWS, January 1, 2021

Gridlock. Cars were moving, but barely. Stop and go, stop and go, emphasis on the former, as Mica drummed her clipped fingernails on the steering wheel. What did she expect an hour into the first day of 2021, for Christ’s sake? She should have expected the mobs of Trump loyalists at the very least. And the insane traffic. On the Beltway that encircled Washington D.C., no less.

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, she mumbled, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. She sighed, thinking of the controversy that declaration had triggered over the years, and that reciting the Pledge of Allegiance in public schools was now considered by some as unconstitutional. Another example of the world gone wacko dumb crazy.

On different horizons the fireworks from numerous private gatherings were still exploding, like something out of a battle scene from War of the Worlds. Muffled only slightly by the closed windows, horns honked, music blared out the odd car window, and some jerk had pulled over to the shoulder and climbed onto the cab of his pickup, where he was dancing as if he was on the floor of some bang-ass New Year’s Eve party. If only.

A hell of a nightmare, Mica thought, though she couldn’t resist a smile as she watched the goofball almost flip into the open-bed of the truck. What I am doing here, anyway? She sighed. It was her own fault. She had been the one to persuade her sister to train in from New Jersey with her eight-year-old daughter, Mica’s niece and goddaughter, Rachel, so they could all celebrate New Year’s Eve together.

Except there was nothing about NYE 2020 to celebrate. Usually, around a million people would pack into Times Square to watch the ball drop. But not this year. As the TV screens showed, for the first NYE in living memory, the place was eerily deserted. Only a select few essential workers and first responders heard (from a private, well-spaced area) NYC Mayor Bill de Blasio declare, In a country, in a city that sometimes could use some more unity, one thing that unifies us all as Americans … we want to get the hell rid of 2020!

Several weeks earlier, Mica had managed to book a table at the Belmont, one of D.C.’s upper-crust hotels that was still affordable on an FBI salary. Seemed like every couple with kids who had ever stayed at the hotel had gotten the same idea. Instead of booze, the elixir of choice had been sugar—lollipops, cotton candy and a gillion licorice sticks that glowed in the dark. All accompanied by masked waitresses, at least six feet between each table and a huge TV screen showing the minimalist firework displays from around the world, including the dull efforts from Times Square.

Mica had tried to look interested at dinner, for Rachel’s sake. So she’d ooohed and aaahed at the screen and joined in the countdown and even ordered a chili dog with onions and mustard from the kid’s menu. Truth be told, she hated New Year’s. What is there really to celebrate? The whole thing was an illusion anyway because the minute after midnight was no different than the minute before. Surely, nothing changed in that briefest of moments.

And all those false hopes, promises and wishes—the New Year resolutions that a billion people made every year. Fraud? To a man and woman, or at least almost. She remembered reading a study once on how many people kept their New Year’s resolutions—not a chintzy study, but a double-blind one involving thousands of people. Not one single person kept their resolution long-term! And if she was completely honest, she hated fireworks, too. But that was a whole different conversation she wasn’t about to have with herself right now.

Another explosion from above rocked through the hull of the car. Instantly, panic flared in her veins. Only fireworks, but they touched nerves she thought she’d deeply buried. She shuddered. She needed a hot bath. She needed to get home, shut the front door, drop the shades and sink into a serious tub of bubbles with a glass of cold Pinot on the side. Or a bottle even. Screw the sugar.

She glanced in the rearview mirror to check on Sara and Rachel, both sitting quietly in the backseat. Unlike her, they were full of the joys of New Year’s Eve. Rachel gazed rapturously out of the car window, her head swinging between the dancing sparkles and showers of light exploding in the sky from the fireworks. Her cheeks were still smeared with dried ketchup from the giant burger and hot dog she wolfed down earlier and flushed from the excitement of staying up all night.

Sara had her arm flung around Rachel’s shoulder. She whispered something in her daughter’s ear that made them both giggle. For a second, Mica’s heart clenched, squeezing out a hollow emptiness. Would she ever know what that felt like? To love someone that much. Either a child of her own, a partner of her own, or both, maybe. She had tried marriage once, with Vincent, but that had failed. Miserably. Not his fault, of course. She was more than happy to take the blame. And she was glad she’d never made babies with him. Imagine having to feign politeness to that man every other weekend.

And what was so great about love, anyway? It usually ended in heartbreak and anger and messy divorces. Mica smiled to herself. She’d stick to casual sex and breakfast burritos, thank you very much. Readily available, immensely satisfying and easy to dispose of afterward.

She tapped her foot impatiently and focused back on the traffic in front. Still no movement.

What’s going on out there? asked Sara.

Dunno, Mica shrugged. I’m sure it’ll clear in a minute. You two okay back there?

We’re good, aren’t we Rachel? Sara tickled her daughter, and the ensuing laughter filled the car and allowed Mica to believe that this trip would be the one to mend some bridges between herself and Sara and a chance for them to get to know each other again.

It wasn’t often Sara reached out to her and, even when she did, Mica usually had an excuse already in place. It’s always work first with you, Sara would say. And she was right. It had always been Bureau over all else. The FBI was more than a job. No time for anything more. Always an ongoing investigation to wrap up, a new case that urgently needed attention, putting the interests of America first. Point being, she had never been good with these family things. But she couldn’t ignore her sister’s recent descent into widowhood. Come and stay, she’d urged awkwardly. Rachel will love the fireworks.

Despite being identical twins, she and Sara were so different in personality, outlook and temperament that it was hard to believe they were even sisters. Sara was so adept at balancing work and family. A hospital administrator with a nursing degree, she was also an active homemaker—a pancake connoisseur, a mom who stayed up late to do puzzles, who went to the skatepark and even played the occasional game. And until six months ago, wife to John.

A young victim of a COVID-19 variant, the South African strain of the virus now infecting the world, John Harris had been the quintessential good and decent guy. Boring as hell, but he treated Sara like a princess, and he completely doted on Rachel.

Okay, okay, I’ll come. Sara had capitulated under pressure from Mica. You’re right. I want Rachel to see that there’s an end to this shitty year, you know what I mean? Ring in a happy New Year with something to look forward to.

Suddenly the traffic cleared with the removal of a small fender bender to the side of the road. Horns blasting impatiently behind her, Mica tapped the gas to catch the guy ahead of her who had already passed through the intersection. The lights were turning yellow and, with a split-second decision, rather than stop as she should, she punched the gas. And that’s when it had happened.

Chapter Two

The nurses pushed a squeaking gurney along the corridor. Orderlies, doctors and staff moved out of the way, but not before they grimaced in pity at the sight of the small girl strapped to the gurney, her top soaked in blood and her legs resembling freshly jointed pieces of beef. The nurses stopped outside the O.R. and one pushed open the door as the other slipped the gurney inside and closed it behind her.

At the other end of the corridor, Mica still couldn’t believe it. She kept telling herself that she didn’t see the guy coming until it was too late. Now, sitting in the treatment room, she raised her hand to touch the thick piece of gauze taped to her forehead. She winced. Ten stitches and a couple of black eyes. Lucky she didn’t break her goddam nose.

It’s not too bad, the doctor had said. A deep gash. Narrowly missed your eye. But apart from the mother of all headaches for a couple of days and a pretty impressive scar eventually, I think you’ll live. You’ll be consigned to desk duty for a few days is all, he’d added with a chuckle. Just to be safe.

A few days? Hardly. She’d been assigned to desk duty for months now. Her real concern was the auto. She shouldn’t have been driving it off hours to a New Year’s Eve party with family in the car. And not just family, her niece, a minor, only eight years old.

A nurse bustled past.

Hey! said Mica. I mean, sorry … Do you know where my sister is? And her little girl? Do you know how they are?

The nurse tilted her head and thought for a moment. Ah, the little girl—

Rachel—

Yes, Rachel. She’s in O.R. And Mom—

O.R.? What—

Broken legs, fractured ribs and internal bleeding, I believe, the nurse said. Her nametag read: Baily.

Nurse, ah, Baily, how serious is it?

She was conscious, but it is hard to tell what is going on inside.

And my sister? asked Mica. Sara. Where is she? How is she?

She’s doing okay, said the nurse. She’s had a pretty big bang to the head and a broken arm, but we’re keeping a close eye. You can go in and see her if you like? She’s in room eight.

Mica’s face burned, her guilt heating through. She broke out in a clammy sweat. Is it me or is it hot in here?

The nurse patted Mica knowingly on the shoulder. It’s you, I think.

Mica stood up gingerly, testing her balance and trying to ignore the wave of nausea crashing against her ribs. I can go now? You’ve finished with me?

I guess we have, said the nurse. But you just go easy now. She pursed her lips and looked Mica straight in the eye. You do know how lucky you were, don’t you?

Feeling like a kid being berated by a teacher, Mica bowed her head. Of course.

You’re FBI, aren’t you? said the nurse.

Yep.

What do you think about all this … Ah, well, maybe I shouldn’t ask, or you can’t say, but … all the stuff on the news about the election? You know? Who won?

Sorry, I can’t really comment, said Mica. You know how it is.

Of course, I understand. Just you take care now. Okay?

I will, said Mica. And hey, thanks.

When Mica finally found Room Eight, she paused in the doorway. Sara was propped up in the bed, bandaged head in her one good hand, fingers twisting and pulling loose tendrils of her hair. It was a familiar gesture that Mica remembered from what seemed like a lifetime ago. It had always been Sara’s go-to posture in times of stress, sadness or worry.

As a little girl, if she ever got into trouble, which wasn’t often as she was such a goody-two-shoes, Sara would dash to her room, sit in a corner, head in hands, fingers pulling at her hair. Through high school, if someone was mean to her, off she’d go to an empty classroom, head in hands, fingers in hair. Often, Mica would come across her in the library, squashed up in her chair, despairing over her latest assignment.

They’d been so close back then, Mica remembered. And it wasn’t just the twin thing. There were plenty of twins who hated each other’s guts. But not her and Sara. They wanted to do everything together. Dress the same, eat the same, play with the same friends. They used to talk about marrying twin boys, just so their husbands would be the same too. Mica felt a pang of nostalgia. God, she missed those days. But then a familiar panic flooded her veins, her scalp prickled as though it was crawling with an army of lice and her heart began pumping the way it always did when she thought backward instead of forwards. But she couldn’t stop the images from flooding into her brain. It was like she’d been transported back in time and was standing on the edge of her life, watching every detail of that night unfold frame by frame. She could still taste the acrid smoke at the back of her throat and feel the sensation of wet grass on her bare feet as, eight years old and terrified, she’d huddled under a bush at the bottom of the front yard watching her family home go up in flames.

She’d been the one who’d left Sara behind, all on her own, when at the first opportunity she escaped the East Coast and moved to the West Coast to study at Lake Washington Institute of Technology. She’d needed to put as much distance as she could between herself and the first eighteen years of her life. She wanted to erase the Mica from then and replace her with someone entirely new. In truth, if her entire memory bank could have been wiped clean like some rogue computer virus, she would have willed it done. Instead, the memories came with her: the PJs she was wearing, the cold air on her skin, the scrape of the matchstick breaking the silence of the night and the monstrous roar of the flames that changed her life forever.

The memories were a curse. But she’d also come to see them as her punishment. She deserved this hellish part of herself. But it was also what kept her on the run. From herself, from her past, and maybe even from her future. Mica clenched her fists hard, so that her nails dug deep crescents into the palm of her hands. Pain, she had eventually realized, was the only thing that helped.

Sara had stayed on in New Jersey and gotten her degree in public admin. But she’d never forgiven Mica for leaving and, almost out of defiance, she had soon married John and settled down to life as a quintessential homemaker.

Mica had missed the wedding, much to Sara’s disgust. An investigation had taken a brutal turn and, wedding or not, Mica couldn’t have just taken a break from it. That was life. At least that was how Mica saw it. When, a few years down the line, Sara gave birth to Rachel, Mica tried to make up for her sisterly shortcomings by making sure she was at Rachel’s christening and agreeing to take on the very serious role of godmother. That invitation had been more of a goodwill gesture on Sara’s part, Mica suspected at the time, as she knew damn well that Mica was devoid of all religious inclinations and couldn’t remember her own birthday, let alone anyone else’s.

It turned out that Rachel was just the glue the sisters needed to keep themselves from falling apart altogether and, somehow, although she was always disastrous at birthdays and Christmases, Mica managed to slot in enough calls and FaceTimes to her sister and niece, so even though she’d never actually set foot inside their house in New Jersey, she felt like she knew it just as intimately as her own, barely used apartment.

When Mica’s marriage to Vincent broke down, Sara was the only one she told. She didn’t elaborate on the reasons why, as she kind of hoped Sara would guess. But then John died, and Sara was so bereft that Mica’s relationship woes paled into insignificance. She’d never bothered to tell Sara about all the women lovers before Vincent, or even the one after—Marianne, a colleague from work. That relationship had only lasted a few months anyway. Unable to handle the Bureau, Marianne had soon moved on. Really, Mica told herself, Marianne had just been a bridge. A way out of heterosexuality for good.

Now, as she looked at her sister twisting and tugging at her blood-matted hair, another wave of guilt swept over Mica. She’d never been one for hugging, but if there was ever a time for one, this was it. She took a deep breath. Hi, sis … She walked softly over to Sara. I’m so—

Sara looked up, her face a tear-stained mess. I’m so scared, she sobbed.

She’ll be fine. Don’t worry. What did the doctors say?

Nothing. She’s in surgery. She’s been in there for over an hour.

Oh, gosh, sis. She’ll be okay. She’s a tough cookie. Anyone who can eat two of those big hot dogs is, can—

Sara began to cry again. Mica dragged over a chair and sat down next to the bed. What about you? she asked.

I’m fine, Sara gulped. She nodded towards the sling on her left arm. Only one break … a nasty one. They’re going to have to pin it, but they’re waiting for the swelling to go down. And I’m not going into surgery anyway. Not while Rachel … oh God. She collapsed into tears again, so Mica held her tight, letting her sob it out.

On the wall opposite, a TV played out Fox News. The screen flashed from an image of Trump’s face to one of Joe Biden’s, then back again to Trump. With the volume turned down, Mica could only lip-read. Trump, who still hadn’t conceded defeat in the presidential election, was boasting about his administration’s great historic victories in defeating the Chinese virus. He was bragging about pioneering new therapies and treatments, saving millions of American lives with unprecedented, amazing, medical miracles and building the greatest economy in the entire history of the world.

Mica sighed and rubbed Sara’s back. Her sobs were easing now, her tears and snot soaked into the shoulder of Mica’s sweatshirt.

Biden came on the screen, and Mica followed his lips as he praised front-line health workers, urged people to get vaccinated and sent a hopeful message of encouragement and good wishes to the citizens of America.

Crazy days, Mica thought. What a mess this country was in. Who could have imagined a virus wreaking such havoc? The entire nation was terrified, and that was why, Mica realized, she had reached out to Sara. The world had shifted on its axis and anyone could fall victim to COVID—young or old. Sara and Rachel were her only family and nothing could be taken for granted anymore.

There was an uneasy feeling lying heavily in the pit of her stomach, and it wasn’t just because of the crash or the pandemic or the screwed-up elections. It was more than that, and it had been there for weeks now, waking her up in the middle of the night, stripping her of her appetite, causing her to check under her bed and in the